


Coming Home

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Coming Untouched, Father/Son Incest, Licking, M/M, No Dialogue, Scents & Smells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7948117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming home means only one thing for Celegorm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the Non-body fetish in my second Season of Kink card.

Whenever Tyelcormo went back home after a long absence, whether he had been hunting in Oromë's company or exploring new stretches of land on his own, he made it a point to always arrive during the night, while the whole household slept – except his father. 

His thoughts when he set foot in the garden at the back of his house were always turned to his father. He would plant himself on a bench in the corner where the workshops were built, throwing his travelling and hunting equipment carelessly to the ground. He waited restlessly, listening in to the chatter of nocturnal birds and the insects buzzing about their business in the garden, praying that his father would emerge from the forge before daybreak, before a golden halo began to tinge the sky to the west and the shutters rattled open in the servants' quarters at the other end of the garden.

The nights he longed for, and which repaid him of his patience and perseverance, were those his father stepped into the portico tired but alert, and upon spotting him in the courtyard stopped and smiled.

On other nights he just gave in to the impulse to see him, even at the risk of disturbing him.

Now he crossed his arms over his chest, taking slow measured breaths to hold that urge in check. 

He had lost track of time when the door of the smithy clicked open and the heavy thud of his father's footsteps rang out in the still pristine night. 

Tyelcormo sprang up. Fëanáro came to stand next to one of the columns. Tyelcormo couldn't see his face in the darkness, in the shadow cast by the low arches of the portico, and thus he perceived his smile with his heart rather than with his eyes, along with the affection, the welcoming embrace in it. 

His heart sped up as the approached. His senses had been sharpened by the long years spent tracking prey in the wild, and even from afar his father's scent tickled his nostrils. It became heavier, and headier, with every step he took – sweat and ash and soot, and the sharp tang of metals mingling on his skin. If the Eldar had recognised each other by scent, that would have been his father's hallmark. If desire had been a smell, his own desire would have taken on that sharp, smoky scent that clung to his father and fed his basest instincts.

He advanced on his father much like he closed in on cornered prey, fleet and silent. He stood before him and trapped him against the column. 

The hand he lifted to curl around Fëanáro's nape trembled at first, while it drew close to the sticky skin, until it rested on it, gentle for a moment before his fingers dug in it. He bent down. His tongue darted out, lapping from the base of Fëanáro's neck to his hairline. The scent then was something tangible, and all-enveloping, and he breathed out noisily through his nostrils before breathing back in again, filling his lungs, his whole being with his father's smell.

“Turco,” Fëanáro moaned and tilted his head to the side, the titillation of Tyelcormo's breath coupled with the cool night air after the fires of the forge sprinkling goosebumps on his skin, 

Tyelcormo fastened his mouth on the neck, sucking down the exposed line to the ridge of his clavicles, reveling in smell and taste.

His hands travelled frantically down his father's chest, feeling his nipples through his stained work-clothes, desperate for more. He yanked at the shirt until it came free of Fëanáro's pants. His hands glided on sweaty skin, over the muscles of Fëanáro's abdomen and further up, slowly as if to absorb his father's warmth and scent, and stopped on his nipples again but barrier-less. Fëanáro writhed against him as he pinched and pulled them, and his chest arched into his hands. 

Groaning, he dived for his father's neck again, while still rolling his nipples between his fingers. A broken moan spilled from Fëanáro, and Tyelcormo clamped his mouth down right under his chin, where he had been sucking, and pulled the skin into his mouth, scraping it with his teeth.

It still wasn't enough. The need for his father, the hunger always simmering inside him, was something visceral, ravenous, and brutal as the taking of lives. He let go of his father's neck and kissed him on the mouth. He bent to pick him up, but couldn't resist licking all over his lips and chin before lifting him in his arms. 

That he did with ease, and carried him back inside the forge, kicking the door shut behind him. He set him down on the bench which stood against the wall on the left hand side of the door, from where he had often observed Fëanáro at work when he was a young elf and didn't understand all the implications of his fascination with his father. He spared a glance for the workbench, where a cloth covered an oblong shape. He had a vision of his father hammering red-hot metal on the anvil, pearls of sweat trickling down his nape and pooling on the neckband, then spreading through the fabric, staining his shirt down to the middle of his back. 

Still lost in the memory, he went down between Fëanáro's legs. His heavy leather pants were held up by a belt tied by a simple knot, and pulling on one end of it was enough for it come undone. He yanked the pants down just so that he could free his father's cock. Fëanáro himself drew his shirt over his head, completely baring his chest to him.

Tyelcormo stood on his knees, just gazing at this father at first. Then he leant in and dropped a wet kiss to his neck, where the skin had begun to darken, another just below his shoulder and another on his right nipple. Slowly he knelt back, lowering his head bit by bit until he got to his father's crotch. 

His scent was even more pungent there, and Tyelcormo inhaled deeply, sticking his tongue out to lick his father's balls. Every swipe of his tongue reverberated through his body, every breath he took was intoxicating. He was so overwhelmed that he closed his eyes, but it wasn't enough to keep his arousal at bay. Fëanáro carded his hands through his half-dishevelled braid, and the gentle, steady massage of his fingers on his scalp was enough to push Tyelcormo over the edge. He came in his own pants before he even had time to realise he was hard, while his father whispered, “welcome home.”


End file.
